Miracle
by Captain Hilts
Summary: After the attack on Ramelle, Reiben walks about in a daze, searching for someone to prove that all was not lost. Oneshot. Feedback always appreciated!


It felt as if he were walking in a dream. None of it seemed real, in any way.

"Medic!" he screamed.

One of them arrived, looking just as young and kind as his friend had.

Private Richard Reiben watched as the medic knelt beside his fallen commanding officer. Ryan was watching on, tears dripping from his cheeks. The medic checked over the Captain, his brow knitted as he worked. But to Reiben's horror, the boyish soldier looked up at him, and his eyes told the whole story. _I'm sorry_. The medic rose to his feet and left them, moving further into what remained of the village. Reiben could only stand there, looking down at his Captain, wishing –willing- him to get up, say his was fine.

But Reiben realized he would do no such thing.

The private walked forward, past Ryan, past the Captain and over the stone bridge. He stumbled over the rubble and his foot caught in holes punched in the rock by bullets. He was completely numb.

"Reiben?"

The voice sounded like Upham, but he didn't care; he was no longer sure who was who anymore. Reiben didn't even see him.

But Upham watched as the soldier walked past him, his dark eyes set on something in the distance. Upham frowned as Reiben stumbled over the rubble and the shrapnel, the B.A.R. dangling loosely from his shoulder. He was still set on something ahead, on a strange mission only he could understand.

Reiben tripped over a German soldier lying in a bloody heap on the ground, catching the destroyed tank for balance. The metal was hot on his hand; the thick smell of diesel fuel hung in the air and smoke still coiled in great clouds over the ruined town of Ramelle.

"Jackson!" Reiben called, "Jackson?!"

Upham shook his head, feeling sadness weigh down his shoulders. Reiben would only find more pain…

The private still trudged through the ruins, ignoring the Germans that lay sprawled at his feet. Greasy smoke still curled above him as he staggered past the Tiger they'd disabled in the street, as well as the tank destroyer, charred a jet black and twisted into an unnatural position. Reiben was panting as he crawled over the rubble, cutting his hands on the jagged bricks and shards of glass. He pulled the helmet from his head, sweat pouring down his face. Laying his rifle beside it, he tore at the assault jacket around him and threw it on top. Dressed only in his fatigues and crew shirt, he stumbled on.

He was at the base of the church.

Reiben clambered up the stone steps, the smell of smoke strong in his nostrils. He forced the door in with his shoulder, the weak wood shattering after a few blows.

It was dark inside, save for the cracks of light that filtered in through the holes in the roof. Most of the support beams had fallen inward, barely holding up what was left of the ceiling. The rafters made crisscrossed patterns now; dust caught the light as it floated through the air. Reiben's eyes searched desperately for the one object he hoped to find. He could hear his ragged breathing echoing inside the demolished building. It was then he saw it.

In a halo of sunlight was the Springfield rifle. The scope was still attached to it, the crystal completely shattered. The glass glittered and spread light in small circle on the floor. The wood had been scorched to a charcoal black, splintering in places. The thin strap hung off of it tangled and threadbare.

Reiben walked swiftly up to the rifle, taking it gently in his hands. He looked down at it helplessly, feeling the distant sting of tears. It was still warm to the touch and rough under his palms, no longer the smooth texture he was so used to. He turned his gaze back to the room.

"Hey…bumpkin?" he whispered, "…'Lil Abner?"

There was no reply. Reiben sniffed, clutching the Springfield to his chest as if it was something so dear to him. He sat in the halo of light, the scenery blurring around him. A few tears dropped to the floor, breaking the dullness of the dust that had covered it.

"This isn't….real…I'm gonna wake up…I'm not here…"

Something clinked on to the floor at that moment, almost scaring him. Reiben sucked in a breath, his battered, cracked fingers snatching up the object.

It was Jackson's cross.

Reiben scraped the dirt off of it with a thumb, as if trying to prove that it was real. The cord was still attached to it, but snapped in half and unraveled in several places. Reiben looked up at the rafters, squeezing the cross in his palm. He collapsed then, sobbing quietly within the church, his shoulders shaking. His friends were dead, his _brothers_. He only wished there was some chance he could have taken it all back, convinced them all it was a stupid idea to go look for this Ryan kid. Bitterly, he forced himself to look at the cross and wondered if there was a God, why did He have to take everyone he cared about from him?

A sudden noise snapped him from his misery. He spun on his heels, trying to locate the sound. His first thought was that an enemy had sought refuge inside. Reiben rose to his feet, anger reaching him, now. Ready to scream at the bastard who dared to hide from him, he hurriedly strode over to the area where he'd heard the noises.

In front of him was a mass of broken stone and twisted boards. The sounds came again, and they scared him for some reason. His anger had ebbed away into confusion. He walked slowly up to the wreckage, a small clearing within it. Reiben ducked under the debris, his bangs hanging into his eyes. The cross was still clenched in his hand. The noise came once again, and his heart shot up to his throat.

He heard a cough, a weak, rasping cough.

Reiben whirled toward the sound, shooting to his feet. His hands tore at the wood and the stones until his fingers began bleeding from the effort. When he had removed as much as he could, he was able to see a crumpled form lying on the floor ahead. A strangled sob caught in his throat.

Private Daniel Jackson was lying before him.

Reiben felt the tears surge and the world blurred around him. The sharpshooter was on his back, the debris from the church weighing him down. He'd been badly wounded all over his arms; cuts glistened red in the light. His shirt had been burned off in several spots, charred skin. His right eye was swollen shut, and his face was marred with scratches and gashes. Blood splotched his youthful face and his eyes were closed.

Reiben could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks as he reached out and gently laid a hand on his friend's head. His blond hair felt damp and shined with sweat.

"Come on, Jacky-boy," Reiben sobbed, "C'mon! Wake up! I heard you…I _heard_ you!!"

When Jackson remained silent, Reiben covered his face with his fists and fell into shameful tears. He wouldn't get up- they didn't, no matter how much you wanted them to. He should've known better than to make friends; he should have left when Miller gave him the chance.

"I wanna go home," he breathed, "I wanna _fucking_ go HOME!!!"

Reiben buried his face again, rocking back and forth slightly.

"T-that's…b-blas-ph-em-y…" rasped a voice.

Reiben reeled around, and he felt a strong hand grasp his arm, making him jump nearly five feet.

"J-Jackson?!" he gasped.

The sharpshooter coughed, smirking through he pain. "Hey…city-boy…"

Reiben couldn't believe it. He moved closer to Jackson, wiping away some of the blood from his friend's face.

"I-I thought…I thought you-"

Jackson managed to shake his head. "I ain't. Not…yet."

Reiben's mouth moved up and down wordlessly, still in utter disbelief. For all he'd been through, Jackson still had a strong grip and a willingness to talk.

"O-okay. I'll be right back, okay? I'm coming back, an' I'll get a Doc to make ya all better."

Jackson nodded painfully, coughing again. He sounded terrible. Spitting blood on the floor, he muttered,

"Don't be long now, Brooklyn."

"I won't," Reiben assured him, "count on it."

With that, the private jumped to his feet and headed outside, his head swimming with everything that had just happened.

*******

Upham was slowly making his way toward the chapel, feeling that awful sorrow weigh down his chest. He had wanted to say something to Reiben, but couldn't find the right words. Nothing was right about this day; about this war.

He was running possible statements through his head, but none of them sounded right. He doubted Reiben would want to hear condolences from him, at any rate. But he wanted to say something, be it ignored or not. The problem was, he just didn't know what to say. A shout brought him out of his deep thoughts, and he stopped in his tracks to see Reiben burst out of the church, the wooden doors slamming against the stones. The private tripped over the bricks, tearing his uniform on the shin.

"MEDIC!" he bellowed, "I need a medic right _NOW_!"

The aidman from earlier heard him, sprinting over to the church as best he could. The B.A.R. rifleman seized the medic's arm and yanked him inside the building. Upham frowned, running up to the remains of the church. He heard Reiben's hurried voice echoing inside, followed by the medic's soft exclamations. Upham forced his way through the wreckage to where they had gathered. His breath caught in his throat.

"…Oh my God."

The sniper opened his eyes enough to look up at him. The medic had crouched beside the fallen soldier, tearing open a packet of sulpha powder and rolls of gauze.

"Hey…Corporal…" Jackson rasped.

"Hey," Upham replied in a soft voice.

He looked over at Reiben, who had also knelt beside the sniper, helping dress the wounds as best he could. Jackson tensed as they passed over a wound on his chest.

"It's alright," the medic assured him, "Just hang in there, buddy."

He was working on Jackson's burns and had already stitched up most of the deeper gashes, but it was apparent that Jackson was hurt more than he was letting on. Reiben watched the medic work, wiping the sweat from his nose. Upham walked up beside him, staring down in awe at his fallen comrade.

"I thought…I thought for certain-"

"Well he's not, Upchuck," Reiben said, in a strangely hushed voice, "He's not."

Jackson suddenly cried out in pain, pounding his fist on the concrete floor. The medic shook his head, winching. Upham and Reiben waited anxiously for an answer.

"Looks like he's got a few broken ribs. We have to be careful getting him outta here, or we'll end up hurting him more."

"Just tell us what to do an' we'll do it," Reiben said.

Upham nodded in agreement.

"Alright," the medic sighed, "I'll round up a team and we'll get him to a safe place."

He left them, promising to be back quickly. Upham listened to the fading footsteps, dropping his gaze back to Private Jackson lying on the floor, his breathing shallow, now. Upham could only stare, still in disbelief. Jackson noticed and managed a wheezing half-laugh.

"I'm real, U-Upham…"

The Corporal nodded. "Yeah. I can, uh, see that."

Reiben chuckled, shaking his head. He gripped Jackson's shoulder and said,

"We'll get you outta here really soon, Jacky boy. And you'll get to take that big boat home; see your folks, and that dog, and that cute little sister of yours."

Jackson managed a nod. He lifted his hand, as if asking for something. He took in a breath and gnashed his teeth. Upham winced.

"Maybe you shouldn't talk," he suggested.

Jackson shook his head, eyes closed. "Reiben," he wheezed, "M-my rifle…did you f-find…'er?"

The private from Brooklyn nodded. "Yeah, I did. I'll get her, bumpkin- you just hang in there."

He left, boots scraping through the dust. Jackson coughed, his breathing still labored. Upham laid a hand on his head reassuringly. Reiben came back into view with the Springfield in tow, falling into a crouch beside Jackson and gingerly handing it to him. The sniper held it protectively in the crook of his arm, letting out a small sigh. He visibly relaxed. Upham allowed a small smile to tug at his lips.

The medic arrived again, this time with a group of his companions. They all swarmed around Jackson, talking in soft tones. Upham helped them lift the rubble off of his comrade's legs; Reiben assisted them in lifting Jackson on to a small stretcher. He cried out again, and the medics automatically set to work.

Reiben watched with his hands in his pockets as his friend was lifted into a deuce-and-a half truck, along with a few other wounded soldiers. Upham was standing beside Reiben, fiddling with an unlit cigarette, watching as the medics secured the truck for travel. Jackson still clutched the Springfield rifle close to him, the gauze bandages standing out clearly against his filthy uniform. There was a strip wrapped around his head and more around his waist and chest. His skin showed brightly from the burn ointment slathered on his wounds.

"We'll send him back to the beach," came a medic's voice, "He'll be alright on those broken ribs so long as he's stabilized."

"Take good care of him," Reiben said, almost as a warning.

The medic nodded, smiling. "You have my word on it, Private."

"He's going home, right?" Upham wanted to know.

"Yes, sir, Corporal. He most certainly is."

The field doctor left them to bid Jackson farewell. Reiben and Upham walked up to the truck, arms crossed, a small breeze blowing the hair from their eyes. Jackson noticed them and cracked a weak smile.

"I'm shippin' off," he said.

Reiben nodded, giving him a smile. He walked up to truck bed, placing his hands on the back end. He reached into his pocket and presented the sharpshooter with the cross he'd found in the church.

"…I guess, I believe in miracles now…and it's all your fault."

Jackson laughed painfully, shaking his head. "At- least- you believe in something…" he said, taking the cross in his palm.

Upham had appeared at Reiben's shoulder. "Good-bye, Jackson. I'll see you…at home, I guess."

"Sure-thing, Upchuck."

The Corporal laughed at the joke seemingly for the first time. Reiben spoke.

"See ya, Daniel. When I get back, we'll come for a visit."

Jackson shook his head slowly, realizing it was the first time Reiben had called him by his first name.

"Thanks…for the- warning."

Reiben laughed. Jackson continued.

"Good-bye, Richard. You take care of yourself, ya hear?"

Reiben saluted. "You got it."

The truck soon roared to life, sputtering diesel-tinged smoke. Jackson gave Reiben and Upham the thumbs-up before he was hidden from view by the canvas flaps on the back of the vehicle. A handful of medics hopped in the back with him and they watched as the trucks drove out of the ruins of Ramelle, taking their friend along without them. Reiben sighed; Upham lit a cigarette.

They turned and walked back into what remained of Ramelle. They picked up their rifles and sat on the stone stairs of the church and stared at the sky until the color drained from the clouds.


End file.
